Bloodlines
by el Jota
Summary: Veszolin Zaurret is raised as any drow male is until it becomes clear that Veszolin is not normal: he is a sorceror, with a unique heritage. This story chronicles his mundane beginnings and his ascent to power, becoming a political force in Menzoberranzan
1. Exsanguination

Veszolin Zaurret was dying. He was not suffering from a life-threatening illness. He was not dying of old age. The mere concept of such an end is an anathema to his Underdark brethren. This is in part because there is no real definition of 'old age' for the drow, who have been known to live for more than two millennia, circumstances permitting. That last clause is especially pertinent given the cannibalistic nature of drow society, which rarely permits any drow to live to see one millennia pass, let alone two. A drow might count himself lucky the measure his existence in centuries. Given his present predicament, Veszolin Zaurret would have counted himself lucky to be included in that last quotient.

As it was, the Elderboy of Menzoberranzan's forty-second house found himself staring at the ceiling of a low cavern located on the outskirts of his native city. His vision was growing gradually blurrier as his lifeblood was slowly but steadily pumped outward onto the instrument of his demise. The short, squat stalagmite had ignored the magical protection of his piwafwi and proceeded to violate his thoracic cavity, splintering his flimsy ribs and perforating the sorcerer's right lung.

He craned his neck upward to survey the damage, if for no other reason than because that was all he could manage. The exertion of arching his neck wracked a low rasping wheeze from his broken body. His head lolled back, all thoughts of movement abandoned, at least temporarily. Thoughts of survival, however, remained racing through his head, accompanied by the thunderous pounding of his heart between his temples.

Drow are creative creatures by nature, and Veszolin was no exception. New ways to kill, inventive methods for survival, and fresh plots of treachery: all standard implementations of drow innovation. Even with his time expiring, Veszolin had formulated two possible escape plans. The first and easiest option would have been to use his house talisman to simply levitate his broken body off the makeshift spear. That option was no longer available, thanks to the treachery of his younger brother. Secondboy Ranyl Zaurret had happened across his misfortune and pocketed the amulet, presumably as proof of Veszolin's demise.

The second option would be to call upon the magical abilities of a blink dog. Exercising this power would phase Veszolin into the Ethereal Plane. His momentarily incorporeal body would slide into the floor for a short duration, at which point he would re-solidify inside the rock and be shunted to the nearest open space. Painfully. And there would almost certainly with negative consequences for the injured sorcerer.

Even if he survived the immediate effects, Veszolin knew he would have to get to healer almost immediately, which further complicated his situation. Ranyl had taken the singular healing potion provided to him. There was really only one way to travel with as much expediency as Veszolin required: dimension-hopping. The House Zaurret sorcerer would have to utilize the short-range teleportation to get back to a reliable healer. Having a house like Zaurret in one's debt might be inclination enough for some, but Veszolin was not naïve enough to believe that there weren't others who would simply prefer to put a dagger in his back. After all, he had made his share of enemies.

Of course, this thought process took a matter of seconds, or Veszolin would already be a corpse. With Lolth's blessing, he might make it. It all depended on how long his miniature ethereal jaunt lasted. Without waiting another moment, the wounded spellcaster recited the proper incantation and began sinking into the floor. He waited what seemed like an eternity before feeling his molecules re-assume their normal place in the Material Plane. And then, back in the cavern, Veszolin Zaurret burst through the hard stone floor, complete with brand new lacerations all over his body, courtesy of his journey through the Underdark rock. Thoughts of the fate of his house flickered briefly through his dying mind, followed by a reflection on his short life up to that point.

And there, draped in the tattered rags of his piwafwi, Veszolin Zaurret died, bathed in an ever-expanding pool of his own blood.


	2. Oh, the Mundanity!

_Roughly a century earlier..._

"So there's nothing?" the first figure asked, her expression displaying her obvious dismay. "Nothing at all?"

"I wouldn't characterize it as nothing," the second drow replied. "He is clearly possessed of all the normal magics associated with noble heritage."

"I KNOW that, _I_ gave birth to him. Would you expect anything less? I meant beyond that, you're absolutely sure there's nothing?

"Nothing beyond what is expected of any normal child of regal birth."

"Fine. Get out of my sight."

The male turned swiftly on his heel, anxious to be away from the disappointed matron.

"Wait," she called, stopped his hasty retreat. "Test him again."

"But we have already–"

"–Do as you are told, male! I said test him again! And if anything comes up I want to be informed immediately."

"As you wish, matron mother," the male responded meekly, maintaining a low bow as he backed away from her, eyes fixated on the stone floor.

As soon as the male had cleared the portal he turned and doubled his pace, once again attempting to put as much distance between himself and the temperamental matriarch as possible. This whole situation was just bad. What did she expect? Patron Tluthonim had given her three daughters and now that she has one son she expects some sort of miracle mage?

As the length of his stride decreased in correspondence to the amount of ground the male had put between him in the matron, his mind was likewise able to slow down. It was then that he realized that he had been looking at this from the wrong angle. This was a delicious opportunity. He resolved that if the test came up normal, he would have Istintra deliver the bad news. That upstart was beginning to become a thorn in his side, and now by the whim of a hopeful matron mother he had been given a chance to eliminate a potential rival. Maybe he wouldn't even bother performing the tests, and just send Istintra to whatever fate awaited him.

A second consideration for what Nathxyra might do if she found out he had chose not to perform the test again made him reconsider. As much as he would have likely to send the young upstart into the stoked ire of House Zaurret's leader as quickly as possible, Micartrin had not become House Wizard by gambling on the wrong set of circumstances. Best to cover all his bases and let Nathxyra do the heavy lifting for him.

Back in the dark recesses of her meeting place with Micartrin, Matron Mother Nathxyra struck out at a nearby wall with her viper-headed whip.

"Damn it! By the luck of the surface dwellers it had to be Tluthonim's child!" she cursed under breath. "You failed me Elaugryn, you and your vaunted dragon virility!" She struck out again at the nearby wall, taking several chunks from an unfortunately placed engraving. Nathxyra took several deep breaths to calm down. As soon as her breathing returning to normal she called upon her clerical powers to restore the damaged stone. No sense in lamenting over a cast die. Maybe the boy would show some promise as a fighter so her first male child would not be complete waste.


End file.
